Open Fire
by ribbonelle
Summary: Yeah, his guns turned him on, so what?


**NSFW; Sticky, gun kink, sex pollen.**

_this was written for 30 days of OTP, under the prompt Sex Pollen. i like the idea of Brainstorm fucking his guns. It's appealing. i liked this enough to post it on its own, plus it was longer than the other prompts i wrote for._  
><em>this felt reaaaally depraved though i think i coulda done more damage but yknow. this was written BEFORE the reveal in MTMTE #33, hence not addressing that issue.<em>

_i can't science, though. and yes i referenced g.i. joe. and yes nedutorium is made up (nede is the first two syllables of 'indestructible' in a language i can't remember sorry). also. sorry for the gun's name. i needed to name it that. enjoy!_

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><p>This was bad.<p>

Maybe not opening-the-briefcase levels bad, or powering up that disintegrating gun that Ultra Magnus specifically ordered him to not use, ever, but this was pretty bad. For Brainstorm, at least, not for anyone else.

That didn't make him feel better.

Brainstorm clutched at his worktable, before deciding that he was better off on the floor. He slumped down like he was strutless, shutting off power to his optics. This was too much.

He activated the locks for his workshop in a swift execution of commands, taking one last look around just in case. Then he moaned loudly, reaching under his pelvic plating to get to his interface panel as it slid open in a rush.

He didn't care anymore; he was running too hot for his own good. Hissing in relief as he plunged fingers into himself, Brainstorm took a few kliks to reflect before he gave in to utter mindlessness. How could he have known mixing the supposedly potent chemical he purchased in that obscure planet at the rim of Galaxy 1L-16 with the weird looking brew he stole from Perceptor's lab would result in an extreme generation of charge that could pass through a mechanism's air circulation system? He had been happily stirring the mixture at a considerably safe distance when it felt like a surge of painful electricity jolted through his systems, making him drop the stirrer he had. Which led to the beaker full of greenish-purple fluid to tip over and make a mess of his worktable, but that wasn't important right now.

His every sensor was alert, alight with charge, and as nature dictated, he was lubricating at an alarming pace. It was an indication that he probably should do something drastic to release said charge building up in his inner workings.

This sucked slag. Brainstorm could probably just ride his own fingers into oblivion, but there was a moment in every bot's life when fingers just couldn't get them where they wanted to go anymore.

In an afterthought, he flipped the plating over his pelvic array back and released his spike, free hand wrapping around it and he vented, evidently relieved.

But it wasn't enough.

Brainstorm deserved better than this, truly. What pathetic mech pleasured himself with nothing but his own hands on the floor of a workshop? He was the ship's genius! Surely there was a more dignified way to go about this.

He could always ask Perceptor. Perceptor wouldn't let a fellow scientist go offline from charge accumulation, right? Perceptor wouldn't have to even participate, Brainstorm could just use Perceptor's frame like a toy. The thought of Perceptor bound and bared while he rode his colleague's spike made him whimper in want, and it wasn't helping.

Or he could ask Whirl. The ex-Wrecker was always pulling smooth lines on him and giving him a dim optic whenever they discussed weaponry. Maybe they could converse about that while Whirl pounded him into the floor? Brainstorm was sure he could keep his mouth running while getting fucked; he was proud of his creations and his collection, it might just prove to turn him on more.

Yeah, his guns turned him on, so what?

His fingers paused in its motion, fist around his spike loosening. Brainstorm lifted his head and looked over to the glass casing mounted on the wall which held his most favoured, most powerful weapons.

The twitch his spike gave at the sight reassured him.

Brainstorm stood up, legs a little shaky from the extreme heat emanating from his valve. He made his way to the collection and let his optics wander, appreciating every ridge and slope he could see. But there wasn't time for foreplay, really, so he settled on one particular gun he had recently created.

That same disintegration gun Ultra Magnus dreaded. Perfect.

He slid open his facemask and vented, noting how the vent gave heat waves in the air. There was no time.

He lowered himself down and laid on the floor, holding the gun close to him in an embrace. It was long; with slightly more length compared to his torso, and its barrel was narrow from the wide cylinder it emerged from. It was shaped that way to focus the rays of microscopically small nanomites towards a specific target, and it was sleek silver due to the nedutorium; one of the few types of metal strong enough to contain said nanomites.

It was divine. Brainstorm constantly fell in love with every new gun he found himself making, and this was his newest object of affection. He couldn't decide on a name yet, but it didn't matter.

He ran his mouth over the narrow barrel and lifted his hips to press his valve against its broad handle; made for optimum control; and couldn't supress pleased laughter. He should have thought about this millennia ago.

Sloppily licking the silver protrusion, the taste sharp and metallic, Brainstorm rocked into the pressure over his valve, reveling in the unyielding edges of the handle. His spike slid along the underside of cylindrical container and it chafed, but lubricant eventually slathered the metal and then it was nothing but pleasant friction over his spike, making him moan around his mouthful of barrel.

Too much.

His hands trailed along its upper edge and deftly flicked a clasp open, detaching the barrel and its container. There was a plugging mechanism of some kind at the end of the cylinder, disabling the nanomites from escaping. The whole thing was almost as wide as his palm, but there was only excitement in Brainstorm's field.

He was going to fuck his gun and love every second of it.

Little whines and moans filled the workshop as he licked and sucked at the gun's barrel, free hand guiding the remnants of the gun to push the cylinder against his crotch. The handle was smeared with his lubricant, and he was definitely leaking onto the floor, but it wasn't as if this was the first time he got off in his workspace.

He spread his legs wider and experimentally nudged the cylinder's width against his opening. It was bigger than he anticipated, but he was nothing if not brave. He let go of the barrel to hold it in his mouth, the girth a pleasant stretch to his rarely used oral intake, and reached down to pull himself gently apart, easing entry.

Brainstorm pushed again and the barrel fell from his mouth, his jaw slack from the acute pleasure zapping through his circuits.

So. Good.

He pushed the gun in all the way, drawing out his pleased moan. His anterior node stuck out from the solid pressure inside of him, and he took a while to rub his palm over it, head thrashing from side to side in his delight.

Accidental sex pollen or not, he was in fragging paradise. Blindly, he reached for the barrel again and licked it, drooling oral lubricant as he flexed his valve callipers. The plug on the cylinder was exquisite friction, a roughness on the generally smooth surface of the gun and Brainstorm lost his mind.

Bringing both pedes to the gun's handle, and one firm first over the lower half of the cylinder, he began truly fucking himself, pinned wings flicking to and fro in happiness. The barrel stayed in the cavity of his mouth, pressing against his cheek as he shouted and moaned around it, delirious.

The cylinder's plug rammed into him time and time again, and his feet proved to anchor the gun so it didn't slide out too far from him. His golden optics flashed and darkened with every thrust, the charge building up high enough to send frantic warnings in his HUD, but Brainstorm couldn't bring himself to care.

If the plug accidentally disengaged while he was doing this, there was no doubt the nanomites would devour him from the inside out, and he'd die without leaving a trace of himself. The thought made him moan brokenly.

"Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, fragging Primus FUCK ME—" He overloaded with a rush, optics whiting out and sparks jumping all over his frame, transfluid jetting in an arc over his plating. He came so hard that lubricant spurted around the cylinder deep inside him, and he could feel it trying to force the gun out.

Brainstorm went limp on the floor with the most satisfied smile on his faceplates. He bit at his lip components, satiation engulfing his field.

"That was good. Primus…" a little shifting and he tugged the gun out of himself, making a sound of protest. Fluid practically poured out of him and he laughed, pulling the gun up and the barrel out of his mouth to reattach them together. There wasn't a trace of extra charge in his systems anymore, and the warnings of overheating had ceased. It was over.

Brainstorm lifted the gun though, checking its exterior for damages. There would be a few dents and scuffs he'd need to polish over and fix, but nothing permanent or too severe. He licked a stripe under it, swallowing his own discharge before pressing a kiss to the barrel again, and his facemask slid close.

He hugged the gun again, voice slurring a little with contentment, "I'm gonna name you Brainstorm Jr."

And it wasn't long before he fell into recharge, lying in a pool of his own lubricants, hugging his favourite weapon in the universe. The Lost Light's genius deserved some rest.


End file.
